Answer your hopes, unto their largest strain!
Yet here mistake me not, judicious friends;
I do not this, to beg your patience,
Or servilely to fawn on your applause,
Like some dry brain, despairing in his merit.
Let me be censured by the austerest brow,
Where I want art or judgment, tax me freely.
Let envious censors, with their broadest eyes,
Look through and through me, I pursue no favour;
Only vouchsafe me your attentions,
And I will give you music worth your ears.
O, how I hate the monstrousness of time,
Where every servile imitating spirit,
Plagued with an itching leprosy of wit,
In a mere halting fury, strives to fling
His ulcerous body in the Thespian spring,
And straight leaps forth a poet! but as lame
As Vulcan, or the founder of Cripplegate.

MIT. In faith this humour will come ill to some,
You will be thought to be too peremptory.

ASP. This humour? good! and why this humour, Mitis?
Nay, do not turn, but answer.

MIT. Answer, what?

ASP. I will not stir your patience, pardon me,
I urged it for some reasons, and the rather
To give these ignorant well-spoken days